Boy From the County Hell
by Maya Tawi
Summary: Harper, meet destiny.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: Not my characters but I think we all know that by now; if Harper was mine, he'd never see the light of day again. The title is from a Pogues song. Apparently Harper's a fan. Who knew? _

I started writing this before "Be All My Sins Remembered" aired, before I learned there was going to be an Official Back Story(tm). Then I watched BAMSR, and it pretty much sucked. So I have no qualms about my alternate universe. Go me! 

Thanks to Lavonne Parks for the opening quote, and to her and Viridian5 for help and feedback and general all-round support and coolness. Trite as it sounds, you guys rock. 

"Boy From the County Hell" (1/9)  
by Maya Tawi 

    _"Friendship, like the immortality of the soul, is too good to be believed."  
-Emerson_

Ships don't land very often on Earth. 

Actually, that's not entirely true. _Nietzschean_ ships come and go all freaking day, carrying food, supplies, new batches of slaves, bigger and bigger guns- basically all the important things, tools to keep the natives oppressed and uneaten. Sometimes they even come by the machine shop for repairs. Not that a kludge like me's ever let anywhere near those marvels of modern technology. 

What we never see is any ship that's not Nietzschean. Mainly because no non-Nietzschean in their right mind would ever want to land on Earth. Unless they're Magog, of course, and that's _entirely_ another matter. 

So when Gaireth kicked me awake-- 

--more on that in a minute-- 

--the last thing I expected to see was the pile of junk and spare parts currently maneuvering its bad self into the hangar. 

I glared up at Gaireth, grumbled something obscene, and rolled over to go back to sleep. Scrap salvage could wait for me to finish my beauty sleep. 

The next kick sent me scurrying to my feet and up against the nearest wall. Apparently Gaireth didn't agree. 

"Crude," I observed, when my mind unfogged enough for me to form coherent thoughts. "Effective, but crude. Did you ever consider investing in a simple alarm clock?" I rubbed my side as I spoke; Gaireth doesn't pull his punches. 

He wasn't amused. He seldom is. Some people just have no sense of humor. 

"Get to work," he growled, aiming another kick. "You're not paid to sleep all day." 

I skipped aside nimbly and sauntered past him. Big but slow, the lot of 'em. "I'm not paid full stop," I muttered once I was out of earshot. The few crumbs Gaireth throws my way are just enough to get by without starving. And that's when he's feeling generous. 

Rubbing my eyes, I peered blearily out the window as I passed. The sky was still dark, a faint orange-purple line on the horizon the only indication that the sun planned to rise any time soon. 

Sleep all day my ass. 

Gaireth's one of many enforcer-types in the local neighborhood "protection society", the big dumb ones who get more rations per month for their trouble. I fix stuff and run errands and basically do all the scut work they wouldn't dream of dirtying their hands with. You've heard of those heartwarming, nurturing relationships between master and apprentice, where they both learn important life lessons from one another? 

We don't have one of those. 

He lets me sleep in the hangar, granted, in the dirtiest corner that's never used by anything with less than four legs. It's the kind of place where the cockroaches chase out the rats. In return he seems to think he gets to kick my ass around twenty-four hours a day. 

I put up with it though. Truth told, it's the best situation I've been in so far in a pretty miserable life, and way better than what most refugees end up doing. For one thing, I get to play around with all those lovely technical toys when Gaireth's not around. Give me a nanowelder and a pile of scrap metal and I'm happy as a Magog in an orphanage. I'd be making a fortune by now with everything I've put together, too, if only there was a market for it; unfortunately, the other street rats like me don't have much use for handheld matter accelerators. And just try convincing a Nietzschean to pay good money for a kludge's inventions. 

Nobody shares my vision. 

The ship had finished docking and was powering down. At second look it was even worse than I'd thought-- old washers hammered together with spare parts and falling apart at the seams. One of the rear thrusters was hanging off the back, just barely still attached. 

I pushed my hair back from my face and winced; it needed a wash. Or maybe a cleansing by fire. 

"I can scrap it in a couple hours," I decided. "You want me just to melt it down, or dig for any functioning parts?" 

That was when _she_ spoke. 

"You scratch just one of the _Maru_'s bolts and you'll be sucking your dinner through a straw." 

Voice of an angel. 

I looked up... and up... to where the rusted doors had jolted to life and were now standing half open. My jaw dropped. I think I drooled. 

The lovely lady in leather narrowed her eyes at me and raised one eyebrow speculatively. She didn't miss a trick. 

Then Gaireth came up behind me with a smack that set my ears ringing and elicited a distinctly undignified yelp. "Hey! Watch the merchandise!" 

"We're not scrapping it, you moron," he growled, ignoring me. As he so often did. "We're fixing it." 

"Fixing it," I echoed dubiously. 

The chick scowled as she looked around the hangar and folded her arms across her chest. Her very attractive chest. "This is definitely the last time I do a cargo run to Earth. Do you people always try to shoot down your own deliveries?" 

Obviously the lady had no idea how the world worked. "Only on slow days. We make our own fun down here." I flashed her a charming smile. She stared down at me, unimpressed. Crushed again. "Besides, we're not with the big guys, rich and priveleged as I may appear." 

She gave me a slow, head-to-toe inspection, and I took the opportunity to return the favor. Sugarplums and black leather, oh my: the chick was a vision in kinky. A wide mouth, arctic blue eyes, and wild burgundy hair certainly didn't hurt. 

Judging from her expression, I didn't meet with quite as much approval. Well, wait'll she saw me all cleaned up. She'd change her tune. 

Gaireth pushed me out of the way, and I bared my teeth at him. He was fairly salivating- whether at Leather Babe's curves or at the prospect of the repair bill for her rust bucket, the world would never know. "And how will you be paying?" he inquired pleasantly. You know, that tone of voice he never, ever uses with me. 

Leather Babe smirked and whipped out a flexi. "I won't." 

Gaireth grabbed it and inspected it; his eyes were like beach balls. Even I was impressed. "You talked the Niets into free repairs?" I asked incredulously. 

She shrugged. "Hey, I was just doing the job they paid me to do. They get trigger-happy, they foot the bill." 

Or rather, the kludges in the machine shop do. I felt my grin fade as the implications of that fact sunk in. No way were the Niets planning to reimburse us for this. This would be unpaid time, labor, and parts-- money coming out of Gaireth's pockets. And, by extension, mine. 

Well, you don't survive two decades on Earth without knowing how to look out for yourself. There had to be _some_ profit to be made from this. And if anyone could find it, it was none other than Seamus Zelazny Harper. 

"So come on," the chick was saying, blissfully unaware of the consequences of her free repair job. Or, more likely, just not caring. "Fix my baby up so we can get the hell out of this trash pit." 

Cue Charming Grin, take two. Full wattage. "What's the rush, huh? Maybe you and me, we could get to know each other, I can show you--" What? The best trash cans to scavenge food from? The best places to get shot by Niets? 

Not that it mattered. Before I could come up with an enticing ending to that sentence, someone stepped up behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist, rested his chin on his shoulder, and nipped at her earlobe. Someone who, unfortunately, wasn't me. She closed her eyes and leaned back against him as he murmured, "Gravity getting to you, babe?" 

My smile disappeared faster than a Nietzschean from a fair fight. Leather Babe was spoken for. Just my luck. 

Then he lifted his head and stared directly at me, and the full force of his glare made me take an automatic step back. I know psychos when I see 'em. I also know to stay the hell away. 

"On second thought," I said quickly, "I'm sure you've got a tight schedule. Hate to see you go." 

Leather Babe looked up again and cracked one eye open. "Get to it then," she said mildly. "Bobby and I'll be around." She smiled slightly then, and practically purred, "We'll be... getting acquainted with the area." 

Exit Leather Babe and Psycho Bobby, stage left. 

I stared after them, feeling my face harden, my good mood dissipate like smoke. Not a care in the world for those two. Just like two rich kids, wandering through space and leaving a trail of wreckage in their wake. Oh, that mess? Don't worry, the servants'll clean it up.... 

Screw 'em. One way or another, I was going to take them for everything they had. 

End Part 1 

_Feedback will be loved and hugged and played with and called George-- er, I mean, will be appreciated. Yes. Very much so._


	2. Chapter 2

"Boy From the County Hell" (2/9)  
by Maya Tawi 

"Junk, junk, and more junk. Come on, you guys, you've got to have _something_ valuable in here. Whatever happened to professional courtesy? You'd think they didn't _want_ to be robbed...." 

I paused in my rifling and my running commentary just long enough to take a quick, wary glance out into the hangar. As soon as Bobby and the Babe finished getting "acquainted", they'd want their ship back, presumably sans mudfoot. And that could be any time. 

Luckily the place was still empty. Gaireth was somewhere in the shop, finishing up back orders on propulsion parts. As far as he was concerned, I was off in the garbage pits making a salvage run. 

Sucker. 

I slammed the metal cabinet shut in disgust and gave it a kick for good measure. I'd been through the command bridge, the cargo bay, the mess, and three crew quarters the size of closets, and nothing for the taking. Unless your taste ran to dancing dashboard hula girls and pink fuzzy dice. 

I'd pocketed the hula girl, of course. Along with a month's supply of food from the mess, so it wasn't a _total_ strike; it just wasn't what I'd had in mind. 

Time to get organized. I exhaled and rubbed my temples, trying to think. After I finished with the crew quarters, that left storage, drive room, and engine room. I'd been sure I'd find something in cargo, at least, but it was empty. Bone dry. Picked clean. Earth was either their last or their only stop. 

On the up side, I had food and a kitschy dashboard ornament. 

I quickly bypassed the locks on the last of the crew quarters and slipped inside. The Babe had pretty good security, I'd grant her that, but no security system stands a chance against the Harper. That's just how things work. 

I shut the door behind me, then turned. Then stood for a moment and stared. 

"Oh, give me a break," I said finally, irritated. 

I'd found Babe and Bobby's love nest. 

After a moment, I edged forward, kicking scattered clothes and various other debris out of the way. It actually wasn't that disastrous, considering; with rooms as small as they were, there just wasn't space inside for a mess. 

A creaking sound from outside made my heart skip a beat, but it was just the ship's weight settling. Piece of junk. 

No, that's not really fair. It really wasn't as bad inside as it looked. There was actually something elegant about the economy of space; all the parts and wires fitted together perfectly, without a single wasted cubit. Whoever had built it definitely knew what he was doing. At a glance, I was willing to bet Psycho Bobby wasn't it. 

The problem was, the ship _looked_ homemade. 

Another creak-- I was actually getting used to them now- and I started going through drawers. There were flexis and data chips, presumably some light bedtime reading; a few cheap metal armbands, which I pocketed; a few things I didn't particularly want to touch; a fairly well-crafted knife-- _now_ I was getting somewhere. Some pretty revealing pictures of the Babe- ah, this must be Bobby's side of the bed. I whistled my appreciation and moved to the next bank of drawers. 

Babe's side was rather more productive; she had some nice looking jewelry, a retractable blade, a full money purse, and a picture frame that looked like real silver. I slipped the original picture out of it, only glancing quickly at it before dropping it back in the drawer face-down. 

Kids. I have a problem with kids. 

For one thing, bad memories. I never got to be one. 

Growing up, I didn't even have the luxury of not knowing there was anything else. Oh yeah, I knew-- somewhere in the universe, life was better. It wasn't perfect, granted-- I knew that much-- but somewhere people still grew up without worrying every day that they'd be beaten, shot, tortured, turned into breakfast, or... worse. People like Bobby and the Babe. 

So I knew there was a better life beyond Earth. I was just never gonna see it. 

I slammed the drawer shut and stood, giving the room one last once-over. A metal storage cabinet lined the far wall; I popped the lock and started rooting around. Clothes, boots, weapon straps and belts, a box with some kind of-- 

Jackpot. 

I felt my eyes bugging as I stared at the contents of the box. I reached down and touched one of them, almost reverently. 

Discs. Pure gold. 

Discs are used a lot for storing data-- we're low tech down here on the home planet, and us plebes can't get our hands on serious data chips. Even discs, relics that they are, are in short supply. And then there's the hard core collectors, people with an inexplicable yen for old music with crappy resolution. Personally, if I can't eat it, wear it, or sell it, I don't see the point, but then there's plenty folks don't understand about _me_; whatever the use, I knew there were people-- people like Gaireth and the guys he answered to, one step up on the privelege ladder and several below on evolution-- who'd pay _serious_ cash and goods for this little collection. 

And judging by the size of the box, that collection would last me a long, long time. 

I don't know how long I stayed there, going through the cases, reading the actual English titles-- Clash, Stones, Pogues, Waits-- and probably grinning like an idiot. Which was fitting, as it turned out, because only idiots stop to gloat. I should've just taken the goods and ran. 

Because when I did finally wise up and open the door to leave, my face slammed into Psycho Bobby's fist. 

I stumbled back, dropping the box like a hot potato and clutching my nose. The box landed on its side; discs spilled across the floor with a loud clatter. Bobby followed me back into the room. He didn't look happy. As if I couldn't tell that by his enthusiastic hello. 

When in doubt, start talking. "Hey! How ya doin'? Listen, I know what this looks like, but I was just making a few last-minute repairs. That box was in the way, I was just trying to get to the, uh-- the...." 

I trailed off under the full force of his Psycho Glare, and cringed and waited to die. 

Psycho Bobby didn't disappoint. He lunged for me, grabbing for my throat. At the last possible second, I dove to the side and scrambled past him to the door. He recovered faster than I expected; I was halfway through when a hand wrapped around my ankle, and I went down. 

I yelled and squirmed and kicked and bit and basically fought for every second he wasn't killing me. Fighting's not dignified. Not the way I do it. It's what you do when you can't outtalk, outthink, or outrun any more, and if it gets that far you're really freaking desperate and you've got nothing left to lose. 

I don't think Psycho Bobby was fully prepared for the dementia that is my fighting style, or else he just wasn't as good as he looked. Either way, we were still struggling when a pair of heavy black boots planted themselves in front of my nose and a familiar voice said, "Both of you. Get up." 

Psycho Bobby froze, and I took the opportunity to throw him off and scramble to my feet. Then I froze too, because Leather Babe was pointing a big freaking gun at me, and man did she look pissed. 

I said the first thing that came into my mind. "He started it." 

I could swear, she almost smiled. 

"What's the damage?" Psycho Bobby growled, climbing to his feet. 

Leather Babe went serious again. "He didn't take much. Just some food from the mess." Then her eyes narrowed, and her lips curled up in a scowl. "And my hula girl." 

I snickered. 

Not smart, I know, but I couldn't help it. When you've survived Magog and Nietzscheans only to be killed by a purple-haired dominatrix with a kitsch fetish, everything else just seems really funny. 

Her mouth twitched again, and I felt a sudden surge of hope. She didn't seem _too_ pissed. Maybe she wouldn't kill me. Maybe she'd only bruise me. 

I decided to try reason. "Look, I-- I'm sorry I got into your stuff, all right? Just let me go, and don't tell Gaireth or anyone. I can make it worth it to you." 

Psycho Bobby sneered at me. "What could you possibly offer us?" 

Leather Babe gestured with the gun. "A fair question. Answer the man." 

"Upgrades," I said quickly. My eyes were glued to the gun. Did I mention it was big? "All your hardware's at least ten years out of date, and it's wearing out to boot. Give me two days and I'll have this baby running faster, tougher, and more maneuverable than you ever dreamed of, all for the magnificent sum of nothing at all." 

"And we're supposed to believe _you_ can do all that?" Psycho Bobby again. 

I glared at him. "Private conversation, pal. No one's talking to you." 

Leather Babe actually smiled. It was brief, but it boded well. 

"Empty your pockets," she ordered. 

Reluctantly I dug my hands in my pockets and let the jewelry, the two blades, and the picture frame fall to the floor. 

She raised one eyebrow. "You guys must have a different definition of empty down here." 

I gritted my teeth together, and the money purse joined the pile. Then I tossed her the hula girl, along with Charming Smile, take three. "Take good care of that little lady for me, would ya? The two of us really bonded during our short time together." 

She caught the hula girl one-handed and grinned back. 

"Oh, _please_ just let me kill him," Psycho Bobby said, glowering. I returned the expression with interest. 

"Hey, you wanna 'get acquainted' with one of our quaint Earth customs? Four words, pal: steak sauce, Magog camp. That's all we can tell you till after the initiation--" 

Bobby opened his mouth. Leather Babe interrupted us both. 

"Stow it, Bobby. You-- mechanic guy--" 

"Harper," I supplied. "You can call me anything you want, baby, but we'll have to ditch this evolutionary misstep first." 

Psycho Bobby growled ominously. I wondered how long I could bait him before his leash snapped. 

"Harper," the Babe echoed. "I'm Beka. You're going to fix my ship. And if you're screwing with me in any way, you're dead, plain and simple." 

I grinned. "All you had to do was ask." 

Then I got the hell off their ship. 

End Part Two 

_Hint: I live for feedback. No, seriously._


	3. Chapter 3

"Boy From the County Hell" (3/9)  
by Maya Tawi 

_At the time I was working for a landlord  
And he was the meanest bastard that you have ever seen  
And to lose a single penny would grieve him awful sore  
And he was a miserable bollocks and a bitch's bastard's whore  
-The Pogues, "Boys From the County Hell"_

Gaireth was pissed. I was screwed. 

In other words? A typical day. 

"Say that again," he growled. "Slow." 

"Sure thing, boss, slow and monosyllabic wins the race. They want more work done, Niets say we give it to them. You got a problem? Take it up with them." 

I was speaking as glibly as I could get away with, trying to hide my nerves and not giving him a chance to think. I was betting he wouldn't complain to anyone; if he did and found out I was lying, I was-- to quote Beka the Babe-- dead, plain and simple. 

But I'd made a promise. 

Let it not be said that Seamus Harper doesn't keep his bargains if he can get away with it. It's true, but it's still kind of rude to say it. 

Believe me, I went over all the options many, many times. There weren't a lot of them. I could ditch Gaireth and the machine shop, but it's not healthy to screw around with protection societies. By the end of the day I'd either have Gaireth's boys after me, or Niets with big guns, or probably both, and I say the hell with that. I could try and leave the city, but the ruling class don't like their lowly subjects moving freely about; border patrols were a serious pain in the ass. If I _didn't_ keep my bargain, Beka would let Bobby kill me, or possibly do it herself. If she didn't, Gaireth would do it for her. And if _he_ didn't, he'd pawn me off to fuck knows who and life wouldn't be worth living anyway, and I'd be back to square one. 

For once, the best thing to do was to actually keep my word. 

"It's coming out of your pay," Gaireth snapped, having finally processed the concept. It takes him a while. 

"Aw, come on," I whined, more for show than anything else. Inside I was doing a five-step swing dance for joy, 'cause I mean, fuck me-- he'd actually _bought it_. 

Gaireth jabbed me in the chest. "You have a problem with that, _you_ take it up with the Nietzscheans." 

Not bloody likely. 

* * *

I sauntered into the hangar, froze, dropped the tool chest, and snarled, "What the fuck are you doing here?" 

Psycho Bobby just smiled. He was leaning against the side of the ship, his arms folded across a chest not nearly as nice as Beka's, looking very much the dick in his tight leather pants and too-cool-to-look-at-you pilot's shades. "You mean, why don't we just hand you the keys to the candy shop and then bugger off away? Gosh, let me think." 

I crouched down and started gathering the scattered tools, still scowling. "Some people should just never attempt sarcasm." 

"That's right, mudfoot, just give me an excuse." 

"Dream on, loverboy," I shot back, brushing past him and through the ship's doors. "Strap in for boredom. I'd say it'll be mind-numbing, but hey-- you don't have a mind." 

He followed me, so close he was practically up my ass. "Just keep going, huh? We'll just see how amusing you are when my fist is down your throat." 

"Hey, violence is easy. Being this clever takes actual talent." 

"What say we find out?" 

I turned and looked at him, less than two inches away, the two of us crammed into the _Maru_'s narrow entryway. My heart was pounding, but I kept my voice cool. 

"Beka," I said pointedly, "would be _very_ disappointed." 

His eyes narrowed, and I felt a sudden jolt of real fear. Maybe sometimes I'm not as smart as I think. If I was, I'd be keeping my mouth shut right about now. 

The moment stretched on for way too long, but at the end of it, all he said was, "Get to fuckin' work." 

* * *

Beka came back just as the sun was setting. Bobby growled something unintelligible to her and stormed off. 

"Hey baby," I called cheerfully, from the more-or-less undignified position of flat on my back on the floor. "Miss me?" 

She didn't say anything, just stepping over me and making a beeline for her quarters. 

"Yeah, same to you," I muttered, and reached up for the control panel again. 

A few seconds later she came back, planted her boots on either side of my hips, and said evenly, "Give me the discs, Harper." 

I laid down the nanowelder and pushed myself up on my elbows with a grin. "I have no idea what you mean." 

"Hand 'em over," she repeated. If her eyes were arctic before, now they were positively glacial. 

I jerked one of my elbows to the side. Three discs hit the floor. I blinked, then stared up at her in amazement. 

"Lookit that, would ya? How'd those get in here?" 

Beka bent down and scooped up the discs, flicking her eyes over them quickly- inspecting for damage, I guess. She spoke almost distractedly, without even looking at me, but her words were deadly serious. "There are two things in this life I hold dear, Harper: the _Eureka Maru_ and my disc collection. If you value your life and limbs, you'll keep your sticky paws off both of 'em." 

I shifted slightly, getting a slightly better view in the process. She didn't look like she planned on moving any time soon. "Hard to do that when I'm trying to fix the ship," I pointed out. 

Finally, she met my eyes again, and that same corner of her mouth twitched. Don't believe the rumors-- she liked me, she really liked me. "Do what you can." 

Then she stepped the rest of the way over me and started moving back up to command. 

"Interesting that your boyfriend doesn't make that list," I called after her, almost as an afterthought. 

She paused just long enough to look back over her shoulder and shoot me a wicked grin. "Interesting how?" 

Then she was gone. 

I smiled goofily for a while at the place she'd just been. Then I took a deep breath and got back to work. 

* * *

"Move your ass, Harper, you're days behind." 

"Not exactly my fault, is it?" I shot back, dropping a dirty rag on the pile in the corner. Gaireth stood in front of me, like an immovable brick wall with an ass and a bug up it. I made to step around him. He blocked me. 

"You're not sleeping tonight till you get caught up," he said flatly. "That may or may not be your problem, but it sure as hell ain't mine." 

I narrowed my eyes. "You know, Gaireth, I hate to say it, but I don't see much of a future in this relationship." 

Then he did something really bizarre. He actually smiled. 

"Well then," he said mildly, "you'd better finish soon, don't you think." 

It was in no way a question. 

"I dunno," I said, suddenly wary. "Get me a caffeine drip and I'll think about it." 

He just pushed past me to the storage room he called his office. I'd almost swear he was humming. 

I scowled after him. Gaireth was _never_ in a good mood. Not unless it involved a great deal of money. And if it involved money, I'd know. I've got a sense. 

Something was up. 

I waited for him to get out of sight, then followed as quietly as I could. I'm pretty good at sneaking around. When you can avoid Nietzschean border patrols while scavenging outisde the city for spare parts, you can follow one big dumb human back to where he thinks he's safe. 

By the time I got to his closed door, he was talking to someone on a comms line. I dug a small amplifier out of my tool belt and pressed it up against the door. 

"...finishing up this last job," he was saying. "Yeah, well, _someone_ ordered some upgrades.... He wouldn't tell me who. At this point I just don't give a fuck. As long as he's gone soon." 

He paused, then: "You found someone? ...Hey, no less than the little shit deserves. Two hundred, right?" 

Another pause. "That's what we said. Trust me, it's a bargain. Long as you can handle the attitude." 

And that was that. I don't know what else he said. By the time he broke comms, I was already outside the shop and halfway down the block. 

End Part Three 

_Feedback? Yes, please._


	4. Chapter 4

"Boy From the County Hell" (4/9)  
by Maya Tawi 

_And maybe that was dreaming and maybe that was real  
But all I know is I left the place without a penny or fuck all  
-The Pogues, "Boys From the County Hell"_

This is what happens when the world falls. 

Oh, it's not so dramatic as I make it sound. It's happened to me before. When Declan and Siobhan died, when my parents died... every time you start getting used to a situation, you finally let down your guard, that's the cue for life to come along and kick you in the ass. Eventually I learned to stop getting complacent. Keep an eye on everything and everyone. 

That's what saved my life to start with. The next step was deciding what to do after that. 

My mind wasn't really a blank. Part of it was numb with the shock, but part of it was already running through options and discarding the least plausible. It's one of the many benefits of sheer genius-- multi-tasking. But even a genius can't do everything, and I must've been far freaking gone if I didn't notice Beka till she was practically on top of me. 

She grabbed my arm as I passed, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. "Hey!" she exclaimed, seemingly oblivious. "You finished yet?" 

I blinked, coming back to reality, and quickly took in my surroundings. I was about three blocks from the machine shop, on a broken side street lined with low brick walls, with junkyards on either side. I could see the telltale signs of refugees in the yards, huddled under blankets and piles of trash for warmth. Winter was coming; I could feel it in the wind cutting through my clothes. Why hadn't I noticed before? 

Beka was still staring at me, her blue eyes narrowed and suspicious. Her face was flushed and sweat was beading along her hairline; she'd had to run to catch up with me. I pulled myself none-too-gently from her grasp and said, "Trust me. I'm through." 

I started to walk around her, and she moved to the side, blocking my way. The wind whipped strands of burgundy hair in front of her face, and she brushed them away irritably; the black leather outfit was gone, I noticed, replaced by a more standard, but no less form-fitting, gray and black flight suit. Ready for a hasty exit, no doubt. More power to her. 

"Beka--" I began with a sigh. 

"Where are you going?" she interrupted. "I thought maybe we could go somewhere, have a drink?" 

Oh, pain. _Now_ she starts falling for me. "Beka, babe," I said with feeling, "there's honestly nothing I'd like to do more. I'm just a little busy not dying right now." 

I moved to the side. She followed, planting her hands on her hips. "What's going on?" 

"You know, I'm kind of in a rush--" 

"Do I have to get Bobby over here?" 

"Now that," I said, "was uncalled for." 

She raised an eyebrow. 

"It's a sordid story," I warned. 

"My favorite kind." 

I exhaled loudly. It came out as a kind of frustrated growl. "Look, I'll say it politely, okay? Please fuck off." 

"Harper, you _idiot_, I'm trying to help you!" Her voice rose continuously as she spoke; a Nietzschean patrol down the block gave us a suspicious glare. 

"Not so loud!" I hissed. Then I paused, as the words sunk in, and added, "Help me what?" 

Beka let out a long breath of air through pursed lips. Between the two of us we could've powered a Dutch windmill. "Can we just go somewhere and sit down?" 

"Nothing doing, angel. You want to talk, you keep up with me." 

This time, when I started walking, she didn't try to stop me; she just matched my stride and started babbling. 

"Okay, fine. Here's the situation. I need a ship's engineer. I mean, I know the _Maru_ inside out, and Bobby has some technical training, but neither of us really has the, the _instinct_ for it, and in a situation like the one we flew into here, where those Nietzscheans got all macho territorial on us, we're both busy trying to stay out of the way of the bullets. If we'd had someone on board to patch her up as we went, we wouldn't have been in nearly as bad shape as we ended up." 

She paused, seemingly expecting an answer, and I said sharply, "Ten Hail Marys and an Our Father. Any other confessions you'd like to make?" 

Beka scowled. "I'd _like_ to offer you a job." 

I stumbled, almost pitching forward onto the broken concrete. Beka caught my shoulders and hauled me back up with surprising strength. Then she just looked at me and waited. 

I opened my mouth and shut it a few times. My vocal cords didn't seem to be working. 

She took this as a cue to continue. "You're good, Harper. Hell, you're fucking amazing. I looked over everything you did, right? It's genius. You're wasting your life here." 

Finally I found my voice. "Well, thanks for the update, but--" 

"I want you to join my crew." 

"Beka," I said quietly, "if you knew what an incredibly huge deal this was, you wouldn't offer so lightly." 

She shrugged. "Well, I don't know, and I am. Consider it your lucky day. So what do you say?" 

"I can't." 

As soon as the words left my lips I wanted to punch myself. How many times had I dreamed about getting the hell off my home planet? How many times had that one impossible dream gotten me through the night? And the first time some lovely lady comes along with her own ship, and asks me to leave with her, and look after said ship- well, I'd be insane to say no, right? 

But it was true. I couldn't. 

"You _can't?_" she echoed disbelievingly, and dismally I thought, I'm with you there, babe. "What, you have like a contract with these people?" 

"Look, Beka," I said quietly, glancing over my shoulder at the patrol at the end of the street, "the Niets don't even let the natives cross city lines, much less leave the planet. It's simple as that. You think I'd still be here if I had any chance in hell of getting out? Every departing ship is searched. _Thoroughly_. Punishment for attempted escape is death. And, I mean, it's been twenty years. I've kind of grown attached to me." 

Eyes like ice drilled into my own. Matter-of-factly, she asked, "So why are you running now?" 

"Running?" I repeated, as innocently as I could. 

Apparently that's not very innocent. "Don't bullshit me, Harper, I'm well versed in the art of running. If it's so dangerous, why are you doing it now?" 

"Because...." I stared up at her for a long moment, trying to come up with a plausible lie. My mind was a complete blank, probably for the first time ever. And then I thought, Why bother lying? 

I sighed again and said, "Because Gaireth pretty much just sold me to someone, and I don't want to stick around and find out who." 

Beka blinked, and I could see her struggle to process this information, to fit it in with what she already knew. Error: failure to compute. "Sold?" she repeated. "That's legal here? You're a _slave?_" 

I smiled wryly. "Technically, no, it's not legal. I mean, we're all Niet slaves really, but kludges aren't supposed to sell other kludges. Which means it's either something the Niets themselves are running, or it's someone so powerful they don't need to answer to the law, and either way I'm screwed ten ways from Tuesday if I stick around. I mean, the guy sold me for _two hundred guilders_, for fuck's sake." 

"Is that a lot?" she asked dubiously. Apparently, to her, it wasn't. And to someone like Gaireth, or the people he answered to, it was pocket change. Too bad it'd be a fortune to me, and I wouldn't be seeing any of it. 

"It's a freaking insult is what it is," I said tartly. "So I'm taking a chance on the open road. All right?" 

I pulled away and started walking again. A moment later I realized Beka was still beside me, silent but implacable, like a faithful hunting dog. Or a prison guard. One or the other. 

I stayed quiet and stared straight ahead as I walked, waiting for her to speak. 

She broke first. "I have a better idea." 

I didn't turn to look at her. "Yeah? Tell me, O Wise One, what's that?" 

"Take a chance with me." 

I snorted and kept walking. "Me, you, and Bobby the Psycho Hose Beast? Sounds like a real cozy threesome." 

I guess even purple-haired angels of mercy have their breaking point. I'd just hit Beka's. 

"Well, that's just fine," she snapped, stepping crosswise in front of me, forcing me to either stop walking or hit the wall. "I'm giving you a once in a lifetime offer here, emphasis on the once. I mean, call me crazy, but I thought you'd actually _want_ to get off this shithole of a planet. I guess all that suffering and oppression I saw is actually just patriotic pride, right? My bad." 

Then she turned and started walking back the way she'd come. 

I stared after her departing back, mouth open, not quite believing what had just happened. No way she'd just offered me an out. _No way_ I'd just turned it down. 

She didn't stop walking. 

I ran faster than I ever had in my life. 

"No, no, no, wait," I gasped, grabbing at her arm as I caught up with her. She jerked away and watched me dispassionately. "Let's not be so hasty here--" 

Beka crossed her arms. "Yeees?" she drawled, waiting as I slumped against the low wall, trying to catch my breath. I could tell she was trying not to smile. Sadist. 

"You honestly--" I stopped, inhaled a giant lungful of air, and looked around warily. The patrol had gone. "You _honestly_ think you can get me by the Nietzscheans?" 

I looked her straight in the eyes, and she met my stare unblinkingly. "With the upgrades you made? Yeah, I do." 

"I didn't mean in a race." 

"I did." 

I blinked. "You think you can _outrun_ them?" 

Beka just shrugged and said, with more matter-of-fact confidence than I'd ever thought one person could safely contain, "I'm just that good." 

"Okay, fine. Say I grant you that much. What's Bobby gonna say?" 

"Fuck Bobby," she said decisively. 

"Not even for a one-way ticket to Tarn-Vedra." 

A sudden, unguarded grin split her face, the most beautiful smile I've ever seen, and she actually laughed- the first genuine laugh I'd heard from her yet. The first genuine laugh I'd heard from anyone in a long, long time. Hesitantly I felt myself starting to smile back. 

Beka turned her head and met my eyes, and she sobered. "You know, Harper," she said seriously, "this is going to work. I can feel it." 

That was nice. At least one of us was convinced. 

End Part Four 

_Comments, compliments, criticisms? Any spare Harpers lying around that you don't know what to do with? Toss 'em my way and I'll love you forever._


	5. Chapter 5

_Mild slash/cousincest warning for this part. Trust me, it's not as bad as all that._

"Boy From the County Hell" (5/9)  
by Maya Tawi 

"Seamus," Brendan said. "Been a long time." 

I attempted a smile. "Long time since anyone's called me that." 

Brendan just stood very still. Didn't react. I let the smile drop half-formed from my lips and took a deep breath. 

Then I looked around at all of them, more careful than I ever thought I'd have to be with these people. For the couple years after my parents died, they were the closest thing I had to family: the gang from the refugee camp, the five of us against all the other refs and the world. Sharing everything-- food, clothes, various diseases; there were days when all I had to do was step outside and I'd be laid up for a week with the flu. Eva or Brendan or Mel or Liam always looked after me, and I did the same for them. Brendan and I went even further back-- back to when the whole thing was still an adventure, when Isaac was still alive. 

Now they were looking at me like I was a stranger. Worse than that, a threat. 

Not that I blamed them. Trust is fragile here. It doesn't survive three years of bad associations. 

I cleared my throat and tried again. "Hey, guys. Room for one more for the night?" 

"Maybe," Brendan said. "Could be." The wary, intense look didn't leave his face. Far as I knew, it never did. "Your friends kick you out?" 

"Friends," I scoffed. "Tell me another. No one's got _friends_." 

"Exactly my point," he said, sounding way more dangerous than I remembered. "You haven't been round for years, cousin. You've got better places to sleep than this. What the hell are you doing here now?" 

I shifted my weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other, glancing back over my shoulder at the street before turning back to the tunnel entrance in front of me. Ref camps form mainly underground, in places hidden from plain sight and hard to get to, places even the Ubers don't know about. I'd been to six or seven before I'd found Brendan and the gang, and every second I spent on the street I felt more and more exposed. "Can I come in first?" 

Brendan scowled. 

I sighed. "Hey, Bren? You wanna frisk me or something? I'm not working for anyone right now, buddy, I just need to stay out of sight." 

Another moment of toe-curling anxiety and frustration, and then he jerked his head sharply towards the tunnel behind him, stepping back just enough to let me pass. "If you screw us, I'll kill you." 

I kept my face deliberately blank as I brushed past him. People were getting very cavalier with my life lately. What with all the testosterone flying around this town, it was a miracle no one had an eye put out yet. 

The tunnel entrance had barely closed behind me before Brendan said tersely, "Talk." His hand was gripping the makeshift knife at his belt. I very carefully didn't look at it as I spoke, keeping my tone light. 

"Gaireth's through with me, Bren. I've been sold to the highest bidder or the friendliest sheikh or whatever, but either way he's kicked me off his boat. Jealous of my talent, probably. I'd rather not play along, you know, I'm kind of a rebel that way." 

Brendan's expression didn't change, but his hand relaxed on the knife. Probably imagining all the ways he'd get to say "I told you so" later. "So you want to run with us again?" 

"Actually, no," I said. "I got a plan." 

"You have a plan," he echoed. 

"Yeah, you know-- a plot, a scheme, a scam, a setup. Look, guys, I know I can trust you and that's why I'm telling you this, but if you spread it around, it's worth my life. However little that may be." I paused and then added sharply, "I can trust you, right, _cousin_?" 

It's not my nature to trust. I hope I've gotten that across by now. But I mean, fuck-- it was Brendan. And I needed him to trust me. Mom always told me, give and get. 

Before the Ubers beat her to death, I mean. 

At least I seemed to be getting through to Brendan. "Harper, you know, you really don't have to--" 

"Yeah, no shit," I interrputed. "But I want you guys to know. I mean, I didn't track you down for the dubious pleasure of your unclean selves. I want to tell you I'm getting off this rock." 

Silence. I took the opportunity to study their faces in the half-light of dusk. Brendan looked as thin and dark and self-contained as always, like somewhere in his body he's running on the intensity of a hundred live wires and no way to ground them. That intensity used to scare me about him; then, later, it became a reassurance. He was furiously idealistic and utterly furious, and we always knew he'd take care of us till death. 

Eva's blond hair had been chopped off at the roots. Fleas, probably. They swept through the camps about once a month, and the only solution was the Final Solution. Mel's impossible blue eyes seemed even larger in her face than I remembered; I'd put even bets on malnutrition. 

Liam was conspicuously absent. I didn't ask. You just don't. 

Almost inaudibly Mel said, "Bren." 

"You're delusional," Brendan said finally. When it came down to the wire, they always let him do the talking. 

"Very possibly," I admitted, with what I hoped was a disarming grin. "I'm also a visionary, which may or may not be the same thing. That doesn't change the plan." 

Brendan blinked, incredulous. "You're not serious, are you?" 

"As a Nietzschean raid," I agreed. "Not that you should read anything into that. I've got a ride lined up and I'm out of here tomorrow. I just need some place to hide out tonight. So you got a space, or what?" 

Brendan's eyebrows lowered-- disbelief, not anger. Then the faintest beginnings of smile started to hover around his lips. 

"Oh, well," he said finally, "I think we can find a spot." 

* * *

I was pressed up against the wall, basking in the feeling of fifty dirty, unhealthy bodies huddled for warmth and remembering why I'd left in the first place, when a familiar voice breathed in my ear: 

"You're an asshole." 

I tried to roll over to look at him, but wedged between his body and the wall like I was, I didn't get very far. I craned my neck around and stared into Brendan's baby blues. 

"That seems unnecessarily harsh," I said quietly, after a moment. 

"It does?" Brendan didn't move. He didn't even blink. I was starting to feel uncomfortably warm, a sensation I didn't usually associate with the camps. "You disappear one day without a word, we don't see you for two years, and then you turn up all of a sudden to say you're leaving the planet tomorrow. You don't think that qualifies you as an asshole?" 

"I'm not big on goodbyes," I mumbled into the wall, hoping he wouldn't fall into the great big gaping logic hole in that particular statement. 

He did. "Would've been fine two years ago, man. But what d'you call this?" 

"I didn't want you thinking I was dead or anything when I went completely off radar." And that was it, really. We'd lost Isaac a long time ago. After that, the five of us had been a unit, a team. Now Liam was gone, and I would've been number three. I didn't want them to think I was beaten. I wanted them to know I'd gotten away. 

Brendan didn't say anything; he seemed somewhat placated, thank God. But he didn't move away either. 

I didn't want him to. 

There's never been a lot of full-out, straightforward sex happening in the camps; at any given time, half the refs are sick and the other half are terrified of catching something from them that would shorten their already stunted life spans. Which is not to say that there's not enough, shall we say, non-invasive sexual hijinks going on to make up for it. You know what they say-- in the midst of death we are in heat. 

Or to put it another way, when you know you might die tomorrow you're not that picky tonight. 

I always had a weakness for the ladies. As for Brendan, he always had a weakness for me. Back in my camp days, he'd featured prominently in several of my own late-night fumblings. Sometimes he was even the star. 

By this point, I'm not even sure if Brendan is really my cousin, or if he's just someone I've known all my life, and it doesn't really matter anymore. It's not like we're getting married and settling down in West Virginia with a half-dozen inbred spawn to call our own; stupid and cliche as it sounds, we're just grabbing on to life any way we can. 

Besides, everyone needs a send-off. 

* * *

Afterwards, I started drifting off, in that peculiar half-dream state when you're too tired to stay awake but too wired to sleep. I was bobbing happily along in this nowhere land when I heard Brendan whisper, "You're really getting out?" 

He sounded almost wistful. Wistful is not a tone often heard from tough-as-nails Brendan, and it brought me crashing back down to Earth. Figuratively speaking. 

"That's the plan," I said cautiously, and waited. 

Brendan didn't say anything, and I felt a stab of something curiously like guilt-- something I thought I'd left behind a long time ago. Good manners dictated I ask him to come along. Good manners had no place in a refugee camp. 

On the one hand, I had no right to offer. I was just lucky that, for whatever reason, Beka had taken pity on me; I wasn't about to drag along my street rat friends. Psycho Bobby didn't even like _me_. 

Which was a nice, solid reason, but the truth was, I just didn't want Brendan to come. He was Earth, and I was leaving Earth behind. Which wouldn't really work if I went dragging a piece of it with me. 

So I just lay there, tense and still waiting, until Brendan's breathing deepened and his head dropped against my shoulder. Then I closed my eyes and exhaled and tried to follow suit. 

Brave new world. 

End Part Five 

_Er. You know what to do, right?_


	6. Chapter 6

"Boy From the County Hell" (6/9)  
by Maya Tawi 

I left quietly just before dawn, while Brendan and the others were still sleeping. Sentimentality only goes so far. 

Beka was waiting for me in the alley, one of many anonymous corridors across the city that led to nowhere. I was pretty sure I'd mugged someone there at least once, before I'd settled into my cozy situation... former. 

Ah, happy memories. Was that a tear? 

As I slunk towards her-- inconspicuous is my _other_ middle name-- she thrust a handful of clothes at me. "Put these on." 

I shook out the largest item, held it up, and frowned. It looked suspiciously dress-like. 

"Question," I said after a moment. "Is this an actual part of the plan, or just an excuse to get me in drag?" 

Beka arched one perfectly shaped eyebrow in response. Her burgundy hair was pulled back tightly from her face, a startling contrast to the wild 'n' wacky style she'd sported the last couple days; her eyes were rimmed in black, her lips unpainted. A holstered gun rode conspicuously on one leather-clad hip. She looked all done up for war, and I wasn't sure whether to be reassured or extremely frightened. 

"You said you didn't want to be recognized," she pointed out. "_I_ wouldn't recognize you." 

I smoothed the dress across my front. "That's just 'cause it'll hide my slim girlish figure." 

"Whatever makes you happy, Harper." She fixed me with an impatient, get-on-with-it look. Resigned, I sighed and pulled the dress quickly over my head. 

"So come on," I said, as soon as my mouth was free of the fabric. "I was fishing there. Plan?" I pressed, when she gave me a blank look. "You've got one? Enlighten the Earthling?" 

Beka grinned. "Plan?" 

My fingers froze in the middle of buttoning. "Please tell me you have a plan." 

"We," Beka said solemnly, "have many, many ideas." 

I just stared at her. "I'm dead." 

"You need to lighten up, Harper," she chided. "Go with the flow a little. We'll get off this decrepit rock, you know? We've got an appointment at the Kaziykan trading post, and we've never missed a money-making opportunity yet." 

I snorted and started buttoning again, ignoring the thrill of anticipation that her words sparked in me; it wasn't a done deal yet. "Your race originated on this decrepit rock, in case you didn't know--" 

"Yeah, and got the hell away from it none too soon." 

I stuck my tongue out at her. "Whatever, Miss I'm-Too-Sexy-For-Your-Planet. And yeah, I feel _real_ confident leaving everything up to you and Bobby and, hey, how'd the boy wonder take the news?" 

"Do you really want me to answer that?" She hesitated, glanced away, then looked back at me, her face serious enough to give me pause. 

"You know," she said after a moment, "Bobby's a lot smarter than you give him credit for. Not to mention a hell of a lot more dangerous. I'd be more careful around him if I were you." 

"Hey, no worries. You got my back, right?" 

Beka didn't answer right away, and I realized suddenly that I was making a lot of assumptions based on insta-camraderie and some good chemistry. It's always been my one failing; I see a pretty face and my logic center short-circuits. 

"Never mind," I said quickly, before she could say something utterly demoralizing. "I'll stay out of the way. You guys won't even know I'm there--" 

"Harper," Beka interrupted quietly, "it's complicated. I mean, I know what you think, but I don't have a leash on Bobby. No one does. If he really, seriously decided you were more trouble than you're worth, you'd be out on your ass by the next station, and that's only if you're lucky and he doesn't decide to space you first." She paused. "I'm not trying to scare you off or anything. I like you, and I want you to stick around. So think of it as a survival tip." 

I snorted again as I did up the last of the buttons-- there had to be a hundred of 'em, from the entire ankle-length of the skirt all the way up to my neck. "Look, lady," I said, settling a ratty broad-brimmed hat on my head, "I may not look it in my current ensemble, but I've survived Nietzscheans, Magog raids, mutant flea infestations-- hell, I survived two whole _decades_ in this armpit I lovingly call home. So forgive me if I'm not intimidated by your wannabe-killer-thug boyfriend, okay? Thanks bunches." 

Beka folded her arms impatiently. "You done?" she demanded. 

"Pretty much, yeah." 

"Yeah, well, that's all in the then, Harper. It's a different world out there--" She jerked her head skyward-- "and paying attention to people's politics can keep you from getting killed." 

"Thinking you're a badass counts as politics? This is one wacky universe you guys got, Beka." 

She raised one eyebrow and the other side of her mouth, in a perfectly coordinated look of disdain. "You know what I mean." 

"Yeah," I agreed, "and I think it's full of shit. But thanks for the effort." 

Beka sighed and raised her hands in a mini-gesture of surrender. "Whatever, pal. Just remember, it may be your neck, but it's my ship." 

Always the tough chick. "Listen," I said, suddenly awkward, "I got something for you." 

"For me?" A twisted smile crossed her lips. "You shouldn't have." 

"Yeah, shut up." I hiked up the skirt around my waist, pointedly ignoring her wolf whistle, and fished in my pockets for a while before I found what I was looking for-- two long metal cylinders. Kinda like tin whistles. 

Beka studied them skeptically. "I don't need any more sex toys, Harper." 

I nearly choked at that, but seeing as she was keeping so blase, I did my valiant best to follow suit. "They're shrillers," I said repressively. "Whistles," I added, when she gave me a blank look. "Ultrasonic, to screw with the Niets' hearing. If you're in a tight spot, just blow on one of 'em and watch the scamps run." 

She shrugged, tucking the shrillers into her belt next to her gun. "Usually I just shoot 'em, but what the hell. Couldn't hurt. Thanks, Harper." 

With that, she turned on her heel and sauntered away, hand resting oh-so-casually on her gun. 

I sighed as I watched her go. No human being has the right to be that cool. 

This was definitely love. 

* * *

It didn't take me long to realize that Beka was right about the dress. I was used to cutting a suspicious figure as I walked the streets, so much so that I felt distinctly paranoid without the usual watchful eyes boring into my back. A scruffy male kid attracts attention; an old street lady is as good as invisible. 

I had to get out of that dress. I was starting to like it way too much. 

Before I completely abandoned the life of a queen, however, I took advantage of my invisibility to scavenge the scrap heaps behind some nearby machine shops. I had some ideas I wanted to try out on the _Maru_; having a whole ship to tinker with was gonna be a... 

...dream come true.... 

I stared blankly at the broken relay transmitter in my hands, overcome by a sudden paralyzing swell of disbelief. Everything was happening just too damn _fast_. Beka had offered me freedom not fifteen hours ago; it seemed like a lifetime had passed. 

I had a ticket off planet. Which I'd prayed for every single night since the Magog turned my baby cousins into human incubators. 

I'd been offered an engineering position on a ship. An experimental ship, with plenty of hardware to keep me busy, and an open invitation to play around with it any time I wanted. 

I was going to be chief engineer on a salvage ship in space. Look out, FTA; Seamus Harper's joining the ranks of the space pirates. The boy from Boston makes good. 

It _was_ a dream come true. 

And it was terrifying. Because it was never supposed to happen like this. 

My hands started to shake uncontrollably, and I dropped the transmitter and fumbled for my pockets. Only the dress didn't have any pockets, so I shoved my hands into my armpits and sank, trembling, to my knees. 

I'd often said flippantly to Brendan that I wouldn't know how to act if I wasn't in trouble, usually just after we'd pulled off a successful raid and were stumbling back to the tunnels together, laughing and hanging on to each other for support. When we weren't successful, no one said anything. _Success_, of course, being defined as all of us getting away in one piece. 

It worked another way, too; I wouldn't know what to do with myself if I wasn't fighting for my life. 

I had absolutely no concept of life in space, or of what the hell I'd do once I got there. I'd always _known_ about it; it was just never an option for me. Never something that happened to a scruffy street kid on Dragan-occupied Earth. 

All I knew for sure was that anything had to be better than this, on my knees in a scrap heap in someone else's rags. 

It was like a fairy godmother had swooped down and offered me everything I'd always ever wanted. But I'm a cynic. I don't believe in fairies. 

I don't even believe in God. 

At that moment a sixth sense, an awareness of being watched, jerked me back to reality. There was a Niet guard staring at me from the opposite end of the road; apparently I wasn't as invisible as I'd thought. 

I climbed shakily to my feet. The nerves could come later. I couldn't afford them now. 

Now I had to concentrate on getting off the blood-soaked soil of the only home I'd ever known. 

* * *

The shop was deserted by the time I got there. Not that it was ever a hotbed of fiscal activity, but this was a particularly eerie silence. 

This could either be a good sign or a very, very bad one. 

I shucked off the dress and wrapped it carefully around the goodies I'd scavenged, brushing off my regular clothes with the gloomy certainty that I'd picked up some extra fleas from Beka's fashion faux pas. Then I stashed the bundle behind the back door and edged carefully inside. 

The lights were off and Gaireth's office was empty. A scrap ship was on the working floor, abandoned in mid-dismantle, tools and parts strewn across the cement like a hardware store had just moseyed into the hangar and exploded. 

I licked my lips, found my voice, and risked using it. 

"Beka?" I called softly. 

Her reply was immediate, deafening, and overwhelmingly vicious. 

"_Seamus, get the fuck out!_" 

Illogical as it seems, my first response was pure, blind anger. The very worst I'd envisioned was that we'd be caught escaping. I never imagined she'd back out on her offer. Yet that was the first thing that came to my mind. 

I opened my mouth to retort, then immediately snapped it shut. Two reasons. 

One: it wasn't just fury I'd heard in her voice; she'd sounded more panicked in that moment than I'd ever imagined she could. 

Two: I'd never told her my first name. 

"Fuck no," I hissed, and turned to run. 

I didn't get very far; the shop was suddenly filled with Nietzschean guns, held by Nietzschean hands attached to Nietzschean arms attached to huge fucking Niet bodies. I ran smack into one's chest and others crowded around me, grabbing my arms and wrenching me back. I heard sounds of a struggle from the next room, but they didn't give me a chance to dwell on it. They held me and I fought back as hard as I could, insane with fear, kicking blindly until they grabbed my legs, until I couldn't move at all, screaming furiously the whole time. 

It wasn't Gaireth's shop I was seeing. It was my parents, gunned down as they tried to protect me from the same fate I was being carried off to now. It was the utter pointlessness of their deaths. 

Somewhere in the back of my mind I registered the sound of a shriller, and the yells of the Nietzscheans, but the hands holding me didn't loosen their grip. Then I was being shoved out the door, and a hand snaked around to grab my head, and I bit it, and then something heavy exploded in the back of my head and unconsciousness took over, and I was finally gone. 

End Part Six 

_Love? Hate? Indifferent? Let me know._


	7. Chapter 7

"Boy From the County Hell" (7/9)  
by Maya Tawi 

_I wish that all this raining would stop falling down on me  
-The Pogues, "Boys From the County Hell"_

Consciousness returned slowly, in small bursts of information. I was alive. I was upright. I was-- what? 

I couldn't help thinking that, for one reason or another, the appropriate word was "screwed". 

No premature panicking; I couldn't panic properly until I was fully informed. Instead I kept very still, cataloguing the extent of the pain, trying to remember what had happened. Beka-- then the shop-- then the Niets-- 

Fuck. 

Cautiously I let my eyes drift open, testing them. Vision was blurry. No big surprise, considering how much my head hurt. Something warm dripped from my nose. Blood or snot. I couldn't tell. 

I sniffed hard, hoping to staunch the flow, and inhaled a noseful of stale sweat and blood and steel bars. I couldn't move my arms or legs. A Niet cell, then; I'd been in them often enough to recognize one by smell. 

Dark shapes moved back and forth in the cell in front of me. I forced myself to relax, letting my chin slide down on my chest, slowing my breathing in an attempt to feign unconsciousness. A split second later, hard, unyielding fingers wrapped around my chin and yanked my head up, so fast it nearly popped off my spine. 

Fucking Nietzscheans always know when you're awake. 

My eyes flew open and a croak escaped my throat, an automatic protest against the rough handling, and that's when I realized I would've given a limb for a cold glass of water. 

"You're awake." 

"Well," I said, "I am _now_." 

It was meant to come out acerbic and contemptuous; unfortunately, to my own ears I sounded like a petulant kid. Very manly, Seamus. 

The Niet's smile was cold, just like everything else in the room. The rough stone wall against my back, the hard metal shackles around my ankles and wrists, the flat black eyes boring like laser probes into mine: all cold. 

I gritted my teeth together and forced myself to glare back. I despised Nietzscheans. I wasn't afraid of them. 

I wasn't. 

He said something, then, that I didn't understand. Maybe my hearing was going along with my eyesight. I shook my head, and instantly regretted it when I felt my brain rattle. 

"The spacers," the Niet said again, slower this time, and way too loud. I winced, but it didn't seem very prudent to ask him to keep it down. "What did they want with you?" 

"My good looks and charming personality," I mumbled, and braced myself for the reply. I heard something in my arms crack and relaxed slightly. That wasn't so bad. I wasn't even feeling the pain yet. 

"What did they want with you?" the Niet repeated again. He was starting to look pissed. The subtext was all too clear: _What could anyone possibly want _you_ for?_

I'm good enough for you to want me, I thought spitefully. Good enough for you to kill my parents trying to take me. 

The problem was, he just couldn't understand. To the Ubers, we kludges are worthless as anything more than slave labor; they could barely comprehend the possibility of us being useful as individuals. This guy wanted to know what made me special enough for Beka and Bobby to risk smuggling me off planet. 

Oh God. Beka.... 

"Why don't you go ask them?" I growled finally, when I got my breath back. Beka had definitely been at the shop. Her voice was the last thing I remembered hearing. Warning me off. 

The most amazing thing anyone had ever done for me in twenty long years, and I owed her for it. Owed it to her to keep my mouth shut. 

I stiffened, again, when I heard more bones crack. Pressure vises, I realized. Stress fractures. I was analyzing the damage even as another part of me finally gave in and screamed. 

"What. Did. They. Want?" 

I gasped a faint laugh. "They got away, didn't they? Slipped through the grasp of the almighty Ubers--" 

Pain ripped through me, from the roots of my hair to the soles of my feet, then circulated back through my skull. A shrill animal scream echoed through the cell. It took me a long time to realize it was mine. 

"Mechanics!" I blurted out, as soon as my throat stopped convulsing, as soon as I could force my lips around the words. I was shuddering uncontrollably, cold and fear and pain. "Engineering, mechanics, I fixed her ship-- she wanted me for the ship, that's all, I promise, I swear...." 

The aftershocks were still rippling through my jaw, slurring my words in new and interesting ways. I tried to stop talking, tried to cut off the flow of words, but they poured out by themselves. So much for repaying Beka in kind. I wanted to die. 

I was probably going to get the chance. 

"Very good," the Niet said, utterly emotionless. "Where are they going now?" 

At least this one I could answer honestly. "I don't know, swear to God, she never told me--" 

But all of a sudden I did. 

_We've got an appointment at the Kaziykan trading post, and we've never missed a money-making opportunity yet._

Didn't matter. They still weren't going to get Beka. Not because of me. 

My mouth snapped shut, but not fast enough. Or maybe too fast. 

"Where?" the Niet demanded again. 

I opened my mouth and said clearly, "Bite me." 

Then I clenched my teeth together, and kept them shut. And for a long time I didn't say another word. 

* * *

The next time I woke up, I was flat on my back and my throat felt like the Kalahari. I swallowed hard and tried to speak. All that came out was a rusty-sounding grunt. 

Cold, dispassionate eyes flicked down towards me, then said something I couldn't understand. The last thing I saw before I passed out again was the knife descending towards my throat. 

* * *

The third time, I remembered everything right away, and for a panicked moment I couldn't figure out why I wasn't dead yet. 

I struggled, trying to launch myself away from the blade, towards relative safety and relative freedom. After a few seconds spent struggling, I realized why I wasn't getting anywhere: I was strapped down to the table. 

Better and better. 

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_. 

As if on cue, the pain flared up yet again, burning through my arms and legs and my skull, and it took me a moment to realize that the fire throbbing on the side of my neck was something completely new. 

I sagged back against the table, letting my head thunk against the hard metal and not even wincing when it started the pounding anew. I was busy re-running my earlier period of brief consciousness through my head. In my mind's eye, I saw the knife coming again-- and suddenly it wasn't a knife, but a scalpel. 

They didn't want me dead, I realized with a groan. They wanted an experiment. They wanted to play with me. 

It was pretty well-known on the streets that the Ubers didn't turn all their captives into slaves. The Nietzschean credo, after all, is to continually evolve into the best of their species. And, sometimes, to help evolution along. And of course, being Nietzschean, they wouldn't try anything on themselves that hadn't already been tested on a worthless kludge. 

On the whole, I'd've preferred to have my throat cut. 

That not being an option at the moment, however, I turned my attention to the matter at hand: finding some way out of the restraints. After that, I could worry about whatever the hell they'd done to me. 

At least they'd healed my broken bones. It made thrashing in the restraints slightly less painful, if no more effective. 

I tried first with my fingers, then my teeth, but it was no use; I couldn't reach the restraints. And even if I could, I wouldn't know how to _undo_ them. As far as I could tell, they didn't lock, or buckle, or do anything that could be undone; they were just solid circles of metal around my wrists and ankles. 

I tried stretching my thumbs as far as they would go in an attempt to dislocate them. All I got for my troubles was twin aches in my knuckles to add to the rest of my collection. 

I was seriously considering gnawing through my wrists-- not _very_ seriously, but I was definitely calculating angles and tendon thickness-- when the lock clicked and the door started to open. I snapped my eyes shut and abrubtly fell back again, too fast; my skull smacked none too gently against the table, and I suppressed a wince. 

Four heavy boots hit the cement floor before the door swung shut again. I concentrated on slowing my breathing. By this point I didn't really expect to fool anyone into thinking I was asleep. I just didn't want to deal with them if I could help it. 

The footsteps stopped just by the table; I could feel body heat radiating onto either side, surrounding me. My heart pounded, and I swore silently. Calm thoughts. Off to Neverland, baby. 

Then a familiar, raspy voice asked, "Is he ready to test?" 

The Uber who'd tortured me. My hands hurt; it took me a while to realize I was clenching them into fists, tight enough to crack knuckles. Didn't matter. They had to know I was awake; obviously they didn't particularly care. 

Then I thought, Aw crap, _test_? 

A cool, quick touch rested on my wrist, then pulled away before I could flinch. I clicked the observations through my head like a computer: fingers. Checking my pulse. A doctor. Human doctor. 

I cracked one eye open reluctantly, just in time to see hands reaching for my face. 

"Hey!" I yelped, trying to pull away. The doctor ignored me; strong, efficient hands grasped the top of my head, tilting it none too gently to the side, and I felt simultaneously ill-used and idiotic. Either one was better than the mind-numbing fear that threatened, so I didn't take it too hard. 

"Minimal scar tissue," the doc reported after a moment. "The skin's closed up, and he doesn't seem to be rejecting the implant." 

His words sent a chill through my stomach; the... _thing_ (implant?) in my neck started throbbing again, as if it'd been waiting for me to remember it was there. Except it couldn't wait for anything. Because it wasn't alive. I hoped. _God_, I hoped. 

I licked my lips, tried my voice. It seemed to be working, though I felt each vibration rattling amplified through my skull. "Uh. Doc? What's going on? What's with the impromptu surgery?" 

He ignored me, or maybe he was just too preoccupied to take note, because in the next instant those same strong, efficient fingers were pressing directly against the burning, screaming pain in my neck. I might've screamed. I wouldn't be surprised. "Skin's still tender," I heard him say distantly, and I thought bitterly, _I_ could've told you that. Would have said it out loud if I'd had any air in my lungs. 

While my body gradually unclenched and I started breathing again, the Niet was saying, "It doesn't matter if it hurts. It's the technology we want to test, not the comfort level." 

This did not sound good. 

"I would advise against it," Doc said, and just when I was thanking whatever gods were listening for having a humanitarian on my side, he went on, "Pain spikes could skew the test results. We want to stay well within the parameters of the experiment." 

My eyes darted back and forth between the Uber and the doc, the latter still keeping a firm grip on my skull. "Um. Excuse me? Experiment? Pain spikes?" 

The doc flattened his hand on my forehead and pushed my head back down on the table. So much for him being the nice one. 

"Twenty-four hours," Big Ugly said, and I couldn't tell from his voice if it was a concession or a threat. 

"Come on," I pleaded, trying not to panic, shooting instead for levity. A choice I seemed to be faced with more and more lately. Oh, how I hate my life. "Aren't you gonna tell me your evil plan before you kill me? That's how the bad guys work, right? I know you Ubers, you're very big on tradi--" 

I realized my mistake as soon as it was out of my mouth, but I couldn't stop in time. Like that was new: Shameless Z. Harper, always shooting his mouth off without ever taking the time to _think_. I didn't shut up till the Niet's backhand cracked across the side of my face; then I let my head drop back again, dazed by the sudden explosion behind my eyelids, fighting against the looming unconsciousness that threatened to take over. 

Ubers hate being insulted by the lesser races. 

They left without another word, turning the lights off and closing the door behind them, plunging the room into complete, unrelieved blackness. I ignored them, concentrating on breathing, and eventually the pain faded to just another dull throbbing, barely noticeable under all the other hurts. 

I lay there for a long time, wide-eyed in the dark, trying not to think about what would happen in twenty-four hours. Then I started struggling with the restraints again, more to keep busy than with any real hope of getting free. 

I kept telling myself that I'd been a survivor. That whatever happened now, I'd had a longer life than most. 

It really didn't help. 

End Part Seven 

_Feedback, feedback, roly-poly feedback...._


	8. Chapter 8

"Boy From the County Hell" (8/9)  
by Maya Tawi 

_Stay on the other side of the road 'cause you can never tell  
We've a thirst like a gang of devils, we're the boys from the County Hell  
-The Pogues, "Boys From the County Hell"_

I took one look at the Dragans' computer system and exclaimed, "Hey, a pony! Is it my birthday already?" 

Needless to say, they ignored me. They'd gotten pretty good at it, having done so all day without so much as a potty break, and usually I can manage to piss _anyone_ off, so these guys were more superhuman than most. At this point our little field trip was a welcome change of pace. 

The Ubers'd left me strapped to the op table for what felt like days but was probably only one or two, long enough for mind-numbing fear to morph into mind-numbing boredom. Long enough, I supposed, for whatever they'd done to my neck to heal, though what version of the word "heal" they were using, I wasn't sure; it still throbbed, just not as badly as before, and there was a strange echo of the throbbing at the base of my brain that I wasn't entirely comfortable with. The rest of the situation, of course, being Duvet City, only with sadistic, bug-ugly pseudo-hunks instead of soft fluffy white things. 

But I digress. 

I still didn't know what the hell the brand-spanking-new implant was supposed to do. The first time I'd tried to touch it they'd cuffed my hands behind my back. All I knew was, I wanted it _out_. 

And now, oddly enough, they were marching me directly into the central command center for the entire base. 

I could only assume they had a damn good reason. Then again, with Dragans, you never can tell. 

Meanwhile, I, as is my wont, was attempting to inject some much-needed levity into the situation. It didn't seem likely to catch on, but I decided to give it one more shot, 'cause winners never quit. Neither do losers, incidentally; they just get beaten. Then they run away. I was working on that last part. 

"Listen, guys," I said, as they uncuffed me, manhandled me into a seat, and secured my wrists to the chair's arms with electronic restraints. "Just 'cause you got me a nice prezzie, I don't want you expecting any special favors-- hey, what the hell--" 

Which was about as far as I got before the long, wicked-looking, disturbingly phallic metal jack plunged into the back of my neck. 

Then I screamed, and the world exploded. 

It was like my mind just shattered, and a whole new world came flooding in through the cracks. All of a sudden I wasn't on Earth anymore; I was hurtling through space, surrounded by brightly glowing data streams like undiscovered planets, like my own private universe, and 

_i ride a wave like water, rushing face-first through the current i almost feel the spray and then _

                (everything stops) 

i'm in a room 

    a box 

        (windowless cubic coffin ) 

but the walls are flawed 

cracked 

and i find a seam and press down and 

    break them 

and the world comes flooding back 

            data like galaxies 

    beautiful 

        infinite and i 

(i i i i I I) 

I know what makes everything tick. 

            (mine) 

My body 

    far away 

        so empty 

    vacant 

tethered to a chair slumped down mouth open eyes closed enemy watching and I 

    (free myself) 

            (come join me) 

    loose the tether and 

(kid in an candy store) 

        press the button. 

Gunfire 

        (enemy running) 

    (good) 

and then 

    I see 

        the doors 

so many doors with so many locks and i i I 

            (be free with me) 

unlock and 

    open. 

This is my world and now 

everything vanished, and I was back in the cold, sterile room that was suddenly far too dingy and small. 

For a moment I just felt utterly, absolutely bereft. Then I blinked, and suddenly there was a Niet in front of me, one I'd never seen before, hands pressed to his ears and face contorted in agony. He was yelling something, and 

(The jack was clutched in one of his fists. My new implant ached in sympathy for its loss) 

as I rubbed my own ears I realized I could hear. 

"_--what you did! Make it stop!_" 

I stared at him for another bemused moment. Then I kicked him in the face and vaulted out of the chair. 

That was when I stumbled over the first corpse. 

The walls and floor of the computer room were scorched in almost regular patterns; the three Dragans that had originally been with me were all dead. From the look of things, the internal defenses had fired, yet somehow both my chair and the equipment had escaped unscathed. 

The dead were all Uber. The live one was regaining his feet and unholstering his gun. I ran. 

To my surprise, no one tried to stop me. 

I ran through corridor after identical corridor with only one thought in my mind: out. Alarms were wailing ceaselessly, and beneath them was the intermittent, nearly-audible hum of an ultrasonic squeal; that was why the Niet had been holding his ears. Had I set that off? I couldn't remember. Apparently I'd unlocked the chair restraints and fired the defenses, but I had no idea _how_; I just had vague impressions of ultimate power, knowing exactly how to manipulate it, and-- 

Footsteps. I ducked around a corner and into a hidden alcove, and then had to do so again half a dozen times after that. Everyone seemed to be running somewhere and yelling something, and it was a fair bet they all had guns. All I had was the biological imperative to save my own skinny yet undeniably attractive ass. 

That and a flash, a memory-- 

I'd changed _something_; torn down the barriers, let everything flood together-- 

Apparently, here on Earth, that translated into open doors. All the prisoners were loose. 

I wished them luck. Then I wished me luck even more. Again with the biological imperative. 

Through it all I just kept running. I had some vague idea of the base layout from my raids with Brendan and Isaac, back before we started dying and we abruptly realized just how serious things had become; I wasn't sure exactly where I was headed, but there was a sense of rightness about it, of getting closer to fresh air and open spaces and the relative safety of street-rat territory, of a landscape I knew. Then suddenly I rounded a corner and there it was: a reinforced metal door, standing open at an almost jaunty angle, a neat and nicely-wrapped contradiction, inviting a last mad dash to freedom-- 

And then an Uber stepped out in front of me, and I skidded to a stop. 

His teeth were gritted against the continuous high-pitched shrilling. It didn't stop him aiming his gun. 

"You," he growled, stepping forward. 

I danced back nervously; behind him, through the open door, daylight beckoned like an oncoming train. Now I could see the two other Niets struggling to force the door closed. They weren't getting very far. 

The first one stepped forward again, arming the gun with a frighteningly real whining sound. The sound of inevitability. 

"You did this." 

"Me? No!" I tried to laugh; it sounded like a high-pitched, strangled choke. "How could I've done anything? Look at me! I'm just a kludge, for God's sake-- really young-- really short--" 

My back hit the wall. The Dragan kept coming. 

"Well then," he said, his voice as harsh, as deceptively smooth, as ground glass, "guess I should just put you out of your misery." 

I turned my head and squeezed my eyes shut, and heard myself whimper. 

Three gunshots rang out, in quick succession. I held my breath and waited to die. 

Then I waited to bleed. 

Then I cracked an eye open, really confused. 

And just like an angel from heaven, there was Beka Valentine-- except an angel wouldn't have been gesturing quite as frantically as she was, nor would she have been holding a huge smoking gun. Not to mention an angel definitely wouldn't have known the kind of words she was currently screaming at me. 

"Man, Beka," I said muzzily. "You kiss your mother with that mouth?" 

"Move your ass, Seamus," she growled, grabbing my arm and towing. 

I followed all too willingly. She was carrying one of my shrillers; she'd used my toys to put the Nietzscheans on the run, and bizarrely, that touched me more than anything else. Anything aside from the incredible life-saving rescue, I mean. 

On our way out the door I spotted Psycho Bobby, crouching behind a nearby wall and dispatching bullets like the morning post. He didn't look too happy. Psycho Bobby never did. 

Then we were running along the dusty road, for once free of Dragan guards-- probably all busy at the base-- and then we were tumbling into the waiting _Maru_, and I gasped, "Why'd you come back? Not that I'm complaining-- I mean, I'm definitely _not_ complaining-- but why didn't you just go?" 

Beka didn't say anything for a moment; she was bent almost double, trying to catch her breath. Then she turned and fixed me with her steely, ice-blue stare. 

"I owed you, Seamus," she said simply. "I always pay my debts." 

I wasn't quite ready to deal with that concept yet, sprawled on the floor as I was, still dazed by my abrupt return to the sharp edges and the harsh sights and sounds of reality; I just said, "Huh," and filed it away for future contemplation. Then I sat up to watch Psycho Bobby running up the road, laying down covering fire back the way he'd come. 

"What happened, anyway?" Beka asked as she busily flipped switches on the control panel, presumably preparing the ship for launch. "How'd you get out?" 

I glanced back at her, feeling a dark smile spreading across my face. 

"They turned me loose on the computer system." 

She turned to stare at me. "They _what_?" 

"Hey, no one ever said the Dragans were smart." 

Psycho Bobby was coming up on the ship now; he raised one of my shrillers to his lips and blew, and the last of his pursuers fell back, clutching their ears. I felt a deep twinge of annoyance. I'd wanted Beka's lips on my whistle and no one else's. 

Then Bobby was in the _Maru_, and Beka vaulted into the back with me and then stopped short, catching sight of my new fashion accessory for the first time. "What did they do to you?" she demanded, suddenly suspicious. 

Self-consciously I raised a hand to my neck. It was throbbing like a fresh burn, like a gaping hole, and I could all too easily imagine the blood pouring out of it, but the implant was still there and my fingers came away clean. 

"What," Beka began again, and I could read her next thought before it even passed her lips, almost before she thought it herself. I could be a borg, a walking time bomb; the Ubers could've implanted any number of nasty surprises in me. But they weren't that smart. Were they? 

I opened my mouth to reassure her, and then the _Maru_'s engines flared to life and the ship started to shake, and I hit the deck again. 

Beka's mouth found my ear; I must've looked like a wild animal, all manic and clawing at the air. "Atmosphere escape!" she yelled, directly into my eardrum. "Hang on to me!" 

"All right," I agreed cheerfully, and hung. 

She wrapped her fingers in my hair and yanked, and we were molded into the floor. 

For about ten seconds Beka and I were pressed to the metal by some invisible giant hand, stuck to each other like Krazy Glue, and then all of a sudden we were floating in midair. And then what I could only assume were the artificial gravs kicked in, and we hit the floor again. 

"Oww." I sat up, grabbing at my head, and winced. "I've been hit by a convoy. Didja have to grab me like that?" 

"I believe that's my line," Beka said ominously. She was on her feet already, tucking her flight suit back into some semblance of array. "Lookee, no touchee, Seamus. And what the hell do you put in your hair?" 

I grinned at her apologetically. "Sorry, boss. I just--" 

And then it was Bobby's turn to bellow from the flight seat, "_Hold on!_" 

I lunged for a nearby railing and did my best to wrap myself around it as the ship dove. Beka, I noticed, was gripping a beam on the ceiling, her lean muscles tensed like she was a racehorse straining at the bit. 

"How many?" she called. 

A few clicks, then, "Three, coming up from behind. Another on its way to intercept." 

Beka smiled grimly. "Nose dive, hang left, and move your ass over." 

This, I understood a moment later, was Beka Valentine in action. 

She vaulted into the pilot's seat, somehow moving gracefully in time to the jerky motions of the ship, and slid up to the controls. She wasn't just Beka Bobby's girlfriend anymore, or Beka the tough chick with the kinky wardrobe and the kitsch fetish, or even Beka my savior. 

She was Beka, fucking amazing spaceship pilot. 

Remember everything I said about loving her? Triple that. Competence is _so_ hot. 

I watched for a few more seconds, open-mouthed with awe, as she played the _Maru_ like a well-worn guitar, like an old familiar lover, deftly sliding the ship away from Niet missiles and ships and assorted other large pointy things determined to kill us all. And then I couldn't watch anymore. 

I was still conscious for Beka's jubilant whoop and the jolting transfer into what could only be slipstream. 

Then I blacked out. 

End Part Eight 

_Like? Review. Dislike? Review anyway. The Power of the Harper commands you._


	9. Epilogue

"Boy From the County Hell" (9/9)  
by Maya Tawi 

_Now you'll sing a song of liberty, for blacks and Paks and jocks  
And they'll take you from this dump you're in and stick you in a box  
Then they'll take you to Cloughprior and shove you in the ground  
But you'll stick your head back out and shout, "Well, have another round!"  
-The Pogues, "The Sick Bed of Cuchulainn"_

I stared into the mirror, contemplating the area where machinery met flesh. Slowly I lifted the splicing knife towards my neck. 

The voices coming from the flight deck rose abruptly to ear-shattering proportions. I winced and gripped the knife more tightly, steadying it. 

Something crashed against the other side of the wall as I made the first cut. 

I worked slowly and deliberately, still wary of poking around my brand new data port. Designed though it may have been for integration with the brain stems and nervous systems of sentient beings, I still wasn't sure it was shockproof. Or waterproof, for that matter; Beka'd said that when I showered I could paste a sealant patch over it, but I was planning to avoid that particular event for as long as I could. The whole idea of showers? That much clean running water? Just... wrong. 

Blood started to seep over my fingers. I gritted my teeth and pushed the blade forward, and my forbearance and sheer balls were rewarded with the dull clink of metal on metal. Dimly I heard the _Maru_'s hatch slam shut and, before long, the heavy echoing slap of boots on the aluminum floor. 

Beka appeared in the doorway of the crew quarters I'd co-opted just as I pried the chip out from under my port. I met her eyes in the mirror and did a discreet double-take; her hair was a pale, strikingly pretty shade of blue, only slightly darker than her eyes. I didn't think she'd had time to dye it since the last time I'd seen her. Maybe it was like a mood ring. Mood hair? Nanotech, probably; I could work that, it wouldn't be too complicated.... 

Her gaze dropped to the splicing knife and she said, "I hope you sterilized that." 

"Um," I said, and dropped the chip on a nearby table. "Sterilized?" 

She sighed and leaned against the wall, looking utterly weary. "Oh, hell. What is that, anyway?" 

"Tracer." I hefted a large wrench, then smashed it down on the chip; it shattered with a forlorn crunch and sizzle of betrayal. Poor blameless electronic device. "Now the Dragans can't follow us. We should probably leave station soon, just in case it broadcast that far." 

Beka acknowledged this with a slight nod, then said, "No, I mean, _that_. The port." 

I hesitated. My eyes went back to the mirror, and the now-oozing hole in my neck, as though drawn by a magnet. "It's a, well, it's a port." 

"Thank you, O Master of the Obvious." 

I grinned at her in the glass. "What, you've never seen a data port before?" 

"Have _you_?" she retorted sharply. 

"Nope," I said cheerfully. "But I've read about 'em. Believe me, they are not exaggerating about these things. Zing!" I clapped my hands together. "Better than flash. I could charge for hits." 

"And the Dragans just-- what? Gave you one for free?" She still looked skeptical. That specter of mistrust still lurked behind her eyes, and it hurt. More than I'd expected it to, it hurt. 

"Nah," I said, and the cheer felt somewhat forced now. "I was just a guinea pig. They do that kinda shit all the time. They gave it some tweaks, and they wanted to try it out on someone who'd know how to handle it." I stared fixedly into the mirror and started bandaging the cut. Didn't want to bleed all over Beka's ship. 

"Poor planning on their part," she observed. 

"Clearly." Bandage, bandage, bandage. Tape, tape, tape. I was way too good at this. Practice makes perfect. 

After a pause, she said, "So if they'd screwed up their tweaks?" 

I shrugged. "Oh, I'd be dead now." 

"Sucks," she said. 

"You're telling me." I turned away from the mirror and started to clean up, sweeping together the scattered bits of wire and metal. After a moment I said, "Look, you don't have to be nice to me, you know. I'm sure you've got better things to do, like rearranging your sock drawer or something, so if you can just drop me off on the nearest free planet I'll be outta your personal space--" 

"What are you talking about? We had an agreement." 

She sounded angry, and I looked up quickly, startled. "Come on, boss-- Beka--" 

"Go back to 'boss'," she snapped. "You're still working for me." 

I spread my hands placatingly and took a nervous step back. "Aw, now don't get me wrong-- I worship you with every fiber of my being, and I owe you my life, and I'll be perfectly happy to try and repay you for that any way I can. But, hey," I jerked my head in the general direction of the flight deck, "I heard the argument. You weren't exactly quiet, you know? The whack-job doesn't want me here. I'm not worth losing him over, Beka, thrilled though I may be about the prospect of your imminent availability." 

She looked genuinely bemused. Was that a good sign? "Are you kidding me?" she demanded. I hastily mouthed, _no_, and she went on, "I'd trade a minor body part to have someone with your skills working on my baby. Besides, Bobby...." At that, she paused, and the melancholy look spread across her face again. "He comes and goes. If it wasn't you, it'd be something else." 

"Really," I said, dubious. 

"Anyway, he left already." 

I frowned. "That was fast." 

Beka's smile looked strained. "He travels light." 

"Wow," I said. Then, "A body part, huh?" 

Her smile widened, seemingly genuine now. "A minor one." 

I made one last attempt at caution. "You sure about this? 'Cause I'm warning you, once you take me on, I'm hard to get rid of." 

Beka gazed at me and said, in all seriousness, "I was pretty much counting on that." 

And really, who can refuse an invitation like that? 

"Fantastic," I exclaimed, jumping up in a little over-excited bounce. "Fan-fucking-tastic! 'Cause I've got some great ideas on what to do with this port, and if you're willing to spot me a couple experiments--" 

"Harper," she interrupted, still looking serious. "Seamus." 

"Harper," I said fervently. "_Please_." 

"Okay. Uh, Harper...." She hesitated, twisting her hands in her shirt. "The thing is, it won't be just us. I've got other crew members. Rev Bem and Vexpag. We're headed for Barton Drift next to pick them up." 

Like _that_ meant anything to me. I waved a dismissive hand in her general direction. "Hey, the more the messier. What's this crew like? Are they female? Are they hot?" 

"Not female," she said, and she looked vaguely amused at that, so I figured they were emphatically _not_ female. Or hot. "Definitely not hot." She paused again. If her shirt was a balloon, it'd be a giraffe by now. "Listen, Harper. Rev...." 

She trailed off, and I felt my grin fading. Warily I said, "Yeah?" 

Beka stared at me for a moment more, concern in her eyes warring with-- defensiveness? was that it?-- and some other, even less identifiable emotion. "You know what?" she said finally. "We'll talk later. You just settle in now." 

I stared after her as she pushed herself off the wall and started out of the quarters, and as she left, she added over her shoulder, "We'll stop on the way to get you some new clothes. And do something about that hair." 

By the time her words sank in she was already out of my line of sight. 

"What?" I yelped, and ran out of the room after her. "Clothes? Hair? Beka! What's wrong with my hair?" 

FIN 

_Loved it, hated it? Let me know, man. Otherwise my life will be sad and lonely and otherwise not worth living._


End file.
